“Absolutely,” Mr. Bingley agreed, glancing at her. “The finest things are often unassuming, and their true value only reveals itself under scrutiny.” He paused, his gaze sliding back to Darcy. “Would you not say, Darcy, that finding such qualities is… quite rare?”
Mr. Darcy met Elizabeth’s gaze, then cocked an eyebrow and regarded his friend once more. “I believe, Bingley, that you have made your point, and rather less eloquently than you think.”
Mr. Bingley leaned back, looking altogether too pleased with himself. “There you have it, Darcy. No need to search far and wide when what you have in front of you is already perfect to the task.”
Five
Darcy stared at thepapers on his desk the next morning, but his focus drifted in a way he had not felt in years. That woman… the one who teased him and talked to him as if he were any other man…
Elizabeth Bennet.
She was a singular woman, that much was clear, though he knew precious little else. Her uncle was a man of trade, which explained why she had never been paraded about in any of the Society balls Bingley had dragged him to. But her father, he had gathered, was a gentleman of some modest property. In some ways, Elizabeth Bennet was much like himself, a person whose connections straddled the worlds of trade and gentility.
Yet, for all this overlap, she was entirely unlike anyone he had ever met.
Her wit, her unpolished honesty, her unshakable poise even when she was teasing him—it was… well, he was not entirely surewhatit was. She had made it plain that while her aunt had orchestrated the evening—likely with an eye to benefitingher, Elizabeth Bennet was a lady perfectly capable of voicing her reservations over such ploys.
That alone had turned the whole manipulation into something he could not quite resent.
The door to his study swung open with a bang, and Darcy did not even need to look up to identify Bingley, strolling in with a bounce in his step and a whistle on his lips. He slapped a document down on the desk on top of the page Darcy was already trying to read.
“Here,” Bingley declared. “My solution to your exile here in Town.”
Darcy glanced at the document, lifting a brow. “And what, exactly, am I looking at?”
“A holiday for both of us, if I have any say in it,” Bingley replied, folding his arms and grinning. “It is a lease. For a property in Hertfordshire.”
Darcy picked up the document, glancing over the lines. “You have leased an estate?”
“Not entirely leased. Not yet. That paper is the offer. All you have to do is lend your hearty agreement, and I shall secure it.”
“And why would you need my agreement? You have money of your own, do you not?”
“Because—” Bingley stepped forward to tap his finger on the page— “as I have said before, it avails me nothing at all to try to do something for my own pleasure without gagging and hamstringing you first. You will find some urgent business that entangles me here before I’ve even set foot in the carriage. I drag you along with me, or I do not go.”
Darcy frowned and scanned the paper, cocking an eye at Bingley every few seconds. “Why a lease? It is like throwing money out with the rubbish bin. You could certainly afford to purchase.”
“Oh,” Bingley said with a dismissive wave. “I can buy property any day of the week. But what I cannot readily do is find something so happily situated. This estate is not offered for sale, only a lease, but it is close enough that we can reach it in less than a day’s ride, and far enough from Town to afford us a true escape. It has fine grounds, the agent reports excellent shooting—although we missed most of that for the season—scenic views, and even a pleasant lake. If I cannot to drag you all the way to Pemberley, then, at the very least, I will get you out of London.”
Darcy smirked, setting down the paper. “And you think I will go quietly.”
“Not at all.” Bingley’s grin widened. “I am prepared to drag you by your cravat if it comes to that.”
“I am half a head taller and at least a stone heavier than you are,” Darcy murmured, scanning the lease details. “Good luck in your attempt, though.”
“Then I will write to the War Office and have Fitzwilliam sent over here at once with his sword and pistols to force you into the carriage.”
Darcy frowned and pushed the lease paperwork back into Bingley’s hands. “Now is not an opportune time to leave London.”
“Oh, no. I will not hear that excuse. There has neverbeena more opportune time! Your sister is staying with Lady Matlock and requires absolutely nothing from you until next year when she prepares to come out. Your estate—you know, the one you never visit—has already put up the season’s harvest and is slipping peacefully into hibernation for the winter. We are not expecting anything but routine business for the next month at least, and for whatever does arise, we can be reached by express in just a few hours.”
Darcy blinked and released a slow exhale. He had fancied, at least for a few moments there, that he might… well, perhaps he might call again on Mr. Gardiner. Just to see that those port wine and olive oil imports had straightened out. He swallowed and was just reaching to examine the lease document again when Bingley plucked them up from the desk and rolled them up.
“You owe me, Darcy,” he said, tapping those rolled papers on his shoulder where that old scar was.
Darcy sighed. It was pointless to argue once Bingley decided to play his trump card. “Very well. A week. I will go for a week.”
“A month, and not a day less.”
